Madness

we are the waves
in our multitude
that dash ourselves to
Pieces
against the rocks of
Madness
and you call to us
Dangerous
Crazy
Damaged
Sick
Twisted
Sexy
Perverted
Disgusting
Lovely
and those are true
all true
yes that as well
only there is more
ALWAYS MORE PLEASE! GIVE ME MORE! DEMANDING SATISFACTION IN THEIR PLEAS!
under the surface
more movement
tidal in nature
Breaking
among the rocks of
Madness
and you say to me
Ludicrous
Idiot
Fool
Imbicile
Moron
Genius
Simpleton
Retard
Gifted
and those are true
all true
yes that as well
only there is more
WHY ARE THEY ALWAYS DOING THIS TO ME! AM I NOT HUMAN! DO I NOT ENTERTAIN!
within the stones themselves
between the cracks
spreading inward
Working
to the center of the rocks of
Madness
and you think of me
You
Will
Never
Be
Anything
Beautiful
In
Your
Life
and this is true
all true
yes that as well
only there is more
YOU DEMAND NOT JUST MY BLOOD, BUT THAT OF MY LOVE! I GIVE YOU MY FLESH! EAT!
within my very nature
to overcome
Everything
Anything
Everyone
Them
You
Me
and i we you us all say
we are falling appart
dying in this
Airless
Heaven
WE DETEST THE VERY THOUGHT!
and we bleed our life on the rocks
bash our head open on the rocks
impale our heart on the rocks
sacrifice our very soul on the rocks
of
Madness
OH MY GOD THIS IS KILLING ME! PLEASE STOP! I WANT YOU TO FINALLY KILL ME!
and I say to you
look
Look
LOOK!
you see
the rocks are smaller

Your hostess, Lilith

Hello, everyone.

People like to have an image in their mind of the person whose words they’re reading. Well, if you’re going to picture me, I’d like it to be as I was when I was about 30 or so. This is my favorite picture of myself, but I will be posting others as time goes by.

Lilith

Past the beginning…

Welcome back. I wasn’t sure how many people would come come back after the first entry. It was pretty drastic. I dumped a lot of things out on the floor, because that’s how I’ve been trying to piece the fractured parts of my mind together.

There’s all sorts of memories here. There’s a ton of them involving Steven (my father/boyfriend) and Michael (his older, and infinitely more disgusting brother, my uncle) but let’s leave those alone for a bit. Those are still jagged from their recent handling, and likely to cut me badly if I pick them up to examine them too soon. There are an assortment of mundane memories that can be placed anywhere and still basically fit in place, as generic as they are.

And then there’s a set of memories that draw me closer. These are dark. A nightmare, then, but something more. They are solid in a way that memories of nightmares aren’t. These are too real. A living nightmare. Or more specifically, a nightmare that I couldn’t wake from, because it was real.

Something terrible, then. Looking around I see parts of other memories scattered here and there that are darker, more ominous, but I have no interest in those. This one fell to the ground mostly intact. If I were to look closer, fit the pieces together, could I possibly gain this terrible memory as my own? Would I want to? I see myself in these fragments. I am me, not one of the other girls. I’m at a bar. It’s late. I have no idea by the morning I’ll have wished to die dozens of times, have parts of me that are glad to be denied the release of death, and others the will feel cheated by being denied the permanent way to end my temporary problems. Even to this day, I’ll wonder if I should have survived.

It was a gay/lesbian bar in downtown Phoenix. Popular with both genders on the normal club nights, off nights were themed to bring in more customers. Tuesday nights were just for the ladies, an all lesbian bar. Beautiful women that loved other women all around me, and I felt safe. I was one of them, accepted in my anonymity, no one guessing I was anyone other than another woman that had discovered within herself a desire for others of the same gender. It was a great evening, with dancing, driking, and a touch of debauchery.

Over the night I had caught the eye of the bartender, and decided to hang around late to flirt with her. The bar shut down and I entertained her while she was counting out the drawers, doing her side work. She had finished for the evening and needed to close the bar down. I said goodnight to her in the office and walked out the back door, the fastest way to the parking lot.

I took a few steps and my head began to hurt intensely, dizzyness stemming from a painful spot on the back of my head just above my neck. I stumbled and someone was there to catch me, keep me from hitting the ground face first. I was grateful. I touched the back of my head and an enormous bolt of pain shot throuh my skull. My hands came around front and I could see smears of blood on them. I was hurt. I was bleeding from someone hitting me with something in the back of the head. And there was a guy. Leading me across the parking lot, but in the wrong way. We were heading to the side of the lot where there were few cars or lights, but lots of thick bushes.

I must have tried to resist because there was a bright burst of pain from my face and head and next I knew I was in the bushes with a guy wearing a ski mask above me. Now I was even more confused. My head was hurting so much I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t understand what was happening. Mostly I couldn’t figure out why he would need a ski mask in Phoenix. I actually worried he might be too hot under there.

I was wearing one of my favorite outfits. A short brown skirt that flipped just enough at the hem when I danced, a nice, loose, semi-transparent golden top with a simple white top under it, taking it from trashy to elegant in a single added garment. A purse and some cute, tan, low healed shoes tied everything together. Lastly was my underwear, but I’ll get to that in a minute.

This man seemed to have a big, metal instrument in his hand and was moving it around me. I could feel tugging on my clothes, but it was brief. Then I didn’t feel the clothes against my body anymore. I was getting colder. I realized what was going on just as the back door to the bar closed. Almost all my clothes had been cut off me, and now I could see what he’d done it with. A gigantic knife was in his hand, and now it was pressed against the hollow below my breast bone.

I couldn’t understand why until he put his finger to his lips. I heard her, the bartender. She was leaving, walking to her car, which was on this side of the lot. Getting closer. And I couldn’t do anything. The knife to my chest made sure of that. All he had to do was push forward and it would bury that long blade in my heart. Then he would attack her, possibly killing her as well. I stayed quiet. I had no other choice than death for me and likely her.

She got in her car and drove away. For a moment I hated her. How dare she leave me alone to die! I had to remind myself that I’d had to help her get away, and I did. She was safe from the monster in a mask that was likely to kill me. Something else happening brought my attention back to the present. He was cutting off my underwear.

These underwear were specially designed to flatten and hide my penis from being given away by any telltale bump. They completely concealed my extra equpiment. Normally a good thing, when he cut them off, he revealed equipent he wasn’t prepared for. He was furious.

He stood up and walked around me telling me I was a disgusting thing while I sat up and tried to collect the rest of my cut up clothes. He stopped me with a kick to the kidneys. As I was writhing in pain he walked around me, kicking me over and over. The back, legs, arms, head. If it was in front of his foot, it was kicked.

I started screaming under the onslaught of kicks. Hard boot tips would whistle out of nowhere, slaming into me unprepared. I couldn’t keep up and started to blessedly lose consciousness. I thought I had finally passed out when I couldn’t feel the blows from his feet. I was aware of the world spinning, everything in me hurting, then being kicked over onto my back. With no control of my muscles, my arms and legs useless, all I could do was watch. I couldn’t even scream. He had kicked me in the back of the head several times, and I think that’s why I couldn’t seem to form words correctly. There was an intense ringing in my ears, so I don’t know if he said anything at that time. He didn’t need to. I knew what was coming.

He had straddled my chest, sitting on me so I could barely draw breath, his knees against my shoulders. The giant knife was back, now at my throat. He was looking at me in the eye. He wasn’t moving. Just looking at me while the knife was against my neck. I remember thinking he was finally going to cut my throat, and I could at last get this whole thing over with. I don’t know if that was the first time I thought gladly I was about to die, but it wasn’t the last.

He sat that way for a moment, then a splash of headlights on the other side of the bushes caused him to put his finger to his lips, telling me to be quiet. The ringing in my ears was fading a little, and I thought I could hear a car engine. He never looked at the bushes, just kept his eyes on mine. I didn’t realize he had put his free hand on a bare breast until he squeezed my right one so hard it sent a bright bolt of pain burrowing into my stomach. I clenched my teeth tight and swallowed my vomit over and over again.

It had been about ten minutes or so. Long enough for my hearing to come most of the way back. There was a car idling nearby, but not nearly close enough to accidentally spot us. I could hear the mumbles of a conversation. As the time drew out he started to look at me differently. A narrow look came into his eyes. He slowly pulled the knife from my neck and let it drag down my chest, making motions like he was thinking of cutting off my breasts. A look I recognized came into his eyes, mixed with other emotions I couldn’t guess, and I knew he had decided to rape me before killing me.

There was a car door opening and closing nearby, then the car drove away. A click of high heels sounded on the pavement some distance away and when this mystery woman left, I knew my chances of surviving would drop to nearly zero. Maybe I gave some sort of sign I was about to call out, because right then he hit me in the head with the hilt of his knife, causing me to black out for a few minutes. When I came back to, the woman was gone. It was just me and him again.

He had backed down my body enough that he put the knife against the base of my penis. He said it was disgusting, then asked if I wanted him to remove it. All I could think was I was going to die soon, and I would rather die without a penis than with one, so I nodded yes to him. He looked surprised, then angry. He stood quickly, knife coming away from my penis so fast I thought he really had cut it off. He flipped me with a few kicks to put me onto my stomach. My face was in the dirt, but I heard his zipper. Then he was on me, forcing himself inside me, and the pain was immense. I cried out. I couldn’t help myself. He quickly grabbed my head by my hair at the top and yanked it back, putting the knife against the right side of my neck.

I got the message. Any sound and he would kill me without much thought. So I endured in silence as he raped me analy. I don’t know how long it lasted, but it was long enough for me to start to get ready to yell. If he killed me it would be over. That’s all I wanted, an end to the pain I was in, even if it meant death. Suddenly, with a series of extremely fast, deep, and excruciating thrusts, he was done.

He stood and told me to sit up. I had a hard time but finally managed. He stood over me, looking. Considering. Deciding. I waited patiently for him to pick one and get it over with. I thought he would kill me. I just hoped it was quick. He bent down to look me in the eyes, then said I wasn’t worth it. He stood, turned, then jogged to a nearby wall, climbing over easily, and was gone.

I started to gather my cut clothing around me, then slowly stood, working my way to my car. My key was still in my purse, so I unlocked it and wadded the remains of my skirt into a pad to sit on. I was bleeding slowly but steadily. I thought about going to the police.

I decided not to. I had had an incident previously where a police officer had been part of a group that beat me severely in my town where I lived, two hours away. I figured that any police I talked to would treat me just as bad, so I drove home. I took the next two months off of work to heal. I had the vacation time, so I used it all, not telling anyone what had happened.

After a while it became dreamlike, something distant, known but not fully remembered. Still, it was on my mind, the fact that it had happened. And other things. So many things. I decided I didn’t want anything to do with this life anymore. I would let one of the other women in my head be in charge. This world hurt too much to be part of.

I retreated again to the depths of my mind, and didn’t speak to another person for almost eight years.

In the beginning…

Knowing I was a girl was something that I realized when I was about 5, so the specifics are really hazy. I remember it being more a feeling of confusion and fear when being told that I was a boy. It wasn’t because I wanted to do girl things. I did want to do those too, but I was such a tomboy (cue irony music) that I liked the boy stuff as well. In events at school we would be separated by genders. I didn’t have any friends of either gender, so that wasn’t a factor when I would know, instinctively, I was supposed to be over with the girls. I felt like I was in a bad nightmare that had only become tolerable because I couldn’t wake up. The first person I told was my dad, which should have been received with love and acceptance. No, it was possibly the most drastic mistake I could have made.

My uncle, years before, had gone to a ward for the criminally insane. This is what they did with child molesters back then if they had only molested girls. That was seen as wrong, but not as wrong as a man molesting a boy. My uncle had 3 girls and one boy. It came out that he was having sex with his two oldest girls. His public defender successfully argued that he should be given leniency because he hadn’t molested his son. Hey, late 60’s, liberal judge, no homosexual contact. That meant he could be treated, right? Nope. I suspect that he molested his son as well, though I have no specific reason to suspect so other than the comfort he had with molesting me in a body with a penis. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

After telling my father, he punished me, telling me that I wasn’t a girl. That I would never be a girl. I, not close to understanding what was happening with me, let alone him, dug the hole deeper. Probably for the first time, I pushed back against my father’s demands and insisted I was a girl. I would not be convinced otherwise. That was the last I ever saw of the man I thought of as someone who was just my father. He was angry. He pulled me into my parent’s bedroom and, as he repeatedly told me he was doing, taught me how little girls in my family were treated. The man that I loved and trusted more than anyone in the world then proceeded to, whenever my mother would spend the night at her sister’s (a more frequent occurance as the years went by), go about trying to convince me that I wasn’t a girl by coercing me to accept that what he was doing to me was perfectly okay if I was a girl, but if I was a boy he would have to stop.

It’s genius in it’s disgusting way. If I kept insisting I was a girl, that must mean that I liked him doing those things to me. That’s what he told me. He said he knew he was right because all I had to do was say I was a boy, which was so easy, and everything would go back to the way it was like nothing had ever happened. It made sense to me, and since I was completely unable to say that I was a boy no matter how hard I tried, I figured that I should just do as my dad said. I figured he was right.

So, I was a little girl just like I insisted, and treated accordingly in my family’s tradition. But that was only to be known to him and me. If I told anyone, he said to me, then the family would be torn apart. My mom would leave because she never wanted a daughter. She hated little girls, so if I told her, she would hate me too. If I told anyone else, they would tell my mom, and she would still hate me. Also, I loved my father. Even while he was doing these things. I believed he was just doing what he had to do because he loved me. I don’t know if that idea came from him or if I somehow came up with a crude concept of that complete thought.

Everything was confirmed to me when my uncle began joining us on some of my father’s and my evenings together. I’m not sure what the first times were like with my uncle. By that point my father had had me as his semi-willing living sex toy for a few years. My mind had already begun to fracture under the constant stresses and I developed large gaps in my memory. Into one of those gaps my uncle was introduced. Neither gave me any other explaination than this was what happened to all little girls in my family. Since my uncle was confirming everything my dad was saying, it really must be true.Then something happened my father wasn’t aware of occurring. My uncle, most likely because he didn’t have access to his children, began to visit me at night while my parents were sleeping. These visits became infrequently frequent. He would come over several nights in a row, then not come around for months. He used similar techniques that my father, his younger brother, used to control me, but with more threat. Now there was the threat of being badly hurt if I my dad found out I was cheating on him with my uncle. Yeah, that’s actually how I thought of it. That I would be cheating.

I was daddy’s little girl, at least when we were alone, and I loved my father so very much that I was terrified of losing him. Being with my father was the only time I was really aware of. Everything else was happening to someone other than me that was trying to find a way to get along as a girl in a boy body. My body, sure, but that wasn’t me. I was my daddy’s secret girlfriend, and I started to jealously guard that secret, wanting to protect it as much as possible. Let someone else live the rest of my life. I didn’t care. I had been trained by my father to be exactly what he wanted, and to want what he did.

Now my uncle threatened to take that all away from me if I didn’t let him have me and keep quiet, so I did. I never told him no. Not directly. But I didn’t say it was what I wanted, either. I saved those special words for my dad, because he was the one I was trained to want to please.

My uncle’s solo visits stopped a few years later, but by that time I was even dissociating my time with him. That was another little girl in a boy body, and I felt bad for her. She had to be with someone she didn’t love, and she was doing it so I could continue to be with my father sexually, emotinally, and even romantically at times. My mind was very crowded. There were a lot of fragments trying to communicate between themselves and with the outside world. I began to panic that one of these other girls inside me would be stupid and start talking, adding to my stress, but I had no idea how to keep them from talking. Either fortunately or unfortunately, none of them ever did. I don’t know what would have happened if one of them had talked, but I suspect it would have taken only the most basic of interviews to tell something was drastically wrong. I was relieved and panicked. Would he tell my dad? Would my father stop loving me like he was supposed to love his daughter? With his mouth, and dick, and soft steel words that wounded deepest of all while making me feel special.

As far as I know, my dad never discovered the side events that one of the other girls in my body was having with her/my uncle. If he ever did find out I never heard, but my uncle is still alive, so I doubt it. Eventually my uncle even stopped joining my father and I, which was much better, because then, on those nights, I got to be the woman of the house.

Years before, my father and uncle had assembled a small amount of girl’s clothes for me to wear on our evenings. There were times that I would get a treat of a new shirt, blouse, skirt, dress, or makeup, always after i had been particularily enthusiastic to their attention. They were my clothes, the clothes I felt most comfortable in, but I could previously only wear them during sex. After my uncle stopped coming over, on my father’s and my evenings, I was allowed to be the woman of the house. I didn’t want to replace my mother. I loved her so much that I couldn’t handle the idea of hurting her with knowledge of what was happening, let alone the horrible news that I was really a girl inside. Then she would tell me that my dad was doing the right thing and treating me like all girls. Then she would be hurt. Then she would hate my father and I for what we were doing and leave. It’s what I had been told for years. I had no reason to doubt. So on those evenings I did everything I could do to be a good and willing wife to him. I cooked, cleaned, did laundry, and of course attended to my marital duties in the bedroom with enthusiasm.

All during this time I actually began to relax a bit. For years this went on, me looking forward to the evenings when I could be closer to who I was inside. I began to be bold on the few times I was aware of things happening that didn’t revolve around my father’s and my alone time. I would find myself aware of sitting on the couch across the room from him and my mother would be out of the room, or I would be in the car with him when he would pick me up from school, and I would flirt mercilessly. At first he seemed to enjoy the extra attention time. Things started to happen even when my mother was just at the store, or between when my dad and I got home and when she did, which was risky, because sometimes there were only minutes between. But I was a good, dutiful daughter, and made absolutely sure he was satisfied.

I believe my dad panicked, finally. He and I were almost caught by my mother and her friends coming home early from a trip. I spent an hour hiding in the hall bathroom pretending to be having a gastric problem until my dad could sneak me makeup remover and some boy’s clothes. He became distant, and I got scared, worried about losing what my father had trained me to want, to wrap my world around. Even at 14 I knew I was losing my husband and was beyond powerless to stop it from happening.

He became more and more distant. We would have times where it would be us, by ourselves, and he wouldn’t look at me. He was disgusted with me for some reason I couldn’t understand. I was so good to him. I gave him everything he wanted without complaint, often with genuine happiness and desire. I gave him my body to use and my mind to corrupt as he wished, but nothing could stop the end from happening.

I had begun to show the first signs of puberty in an overt way. I was getting more muscular, growing body hair, shoulders expanding while my hips remained a bit too narrow, and the clothes I loved to wear, my clothes, began to not fit me the way they should no matter what size my father bought. I had been able to function sexually for years before, but now my body suddenly felt like it was deliberately betraying me. I was going to lose him because I couldn’t look the way I knew he wanted. I couldn’t look the way I knew I should. I looked too much like a boy, and that wasn’t what my father, the man I thought of in an abstract way as my husband, desired. Every week that passed showed him further from me than before, until he barely looked my way. A couple of times I tried drastic measures to keep from losing him, but that just led to him punishing me severely and finally forbidding any physical contact at all. I would spend hours in my room, crying for everything I’d lost.

What hurt me the most was losing the look in my father’s eyes when he looked at me like a daughter/wife. He would look at me and see the girl I was. Yes, it was sick. It was disgusting, and wrong on so many levels, but it was the only time I could feel comfortable within myself. All my body’s other hours were taken by the other girls in my head as they went about their days, each performing her duty as she saw fit. They didn’t know or understand me, and they didn’t want to know me. I was the slut of the group, the whore. I was pretty much okay by that point with everything my dad and I were doing, which, to these other parts of my own mind, meant that I was just as bad as he was.

Then, everything stopped flat. I tried one last time to regain what I had lost and seduce my father, win back his love. It was a disaster, and there was violence. After, I cleaned myself up and cleaned the blood off the carpet and wall and bed. The last encounter with my father was essentially the first time I was raped by force rather than coercion. I rarely touched my father after that. It broke my heart, and broke my mind even further. I retreated inside, not paying attention to anything happening, content to let the other girls try to get along in a world where they had to pretend to be a boy. I turned away from everything. I was a 14 year old divorcee that had lost her husband and life she wanted because her body had betrayed her and turned noticeably masculine.

I stayed hidden inside my own mind, rarely venturing out. Things between the other girls and my dad fell apart from in a major way. One of the girls, over time, had started to assert herself as the one in charge, so I just stepped aside. My last memory of my childhood that is mine and doesn’t belong to one of the other women in my head, is my 16th birthday party. Alone in my room I was able to pull out the last thing I had to remind me of what I had lost. A dress I had saved and hidden. Not my favorite, but it was pretty. My mother came in my room and caught me with the dress. When she asked me why I had it, I told her it was a gift for a girl I liked. She left it at that as far as I know. My next interaction with the real world wouldn’t be for another 14 years, after I had turned 30.

I’d like to point something out. Before I was molested by my dad, I knew myself to be a girl. It was always there, within me. I never had to think about it. I didn’t come to a conclusion one day. I knew I was a girl since I learned there was a difference between boys and girls. All the things that happened after that shaped me, but they didn’t establish my gender. That has always been female. Yes, I was born with a penis. Yes, I still have it. I don’t know what will happen to it. If I can afford the surgery, which isn’t covered by insurance, then possibly I’ll have it done. However, I doubt I’ll ever be able to afford the price.

So, there’s my story. Well, a small part of it. I was hypersexualized from a very young age, and the damage was profound. But time, patience, therapy, and tears are all working with me these days to help me heal. Its a really slow process, but it works if you put in the work and effort. I’m more than willing to do the work. I’m healing. I’m beginning to see myself as someone worthy of love. Mostly, I’ve been learning to love myself and accept myself, not as someone so damaged she needs to be on medication, but as someone that knows what it’s like to love, lose, and heal in healthy ways. I am a work of art in progress, and I must act as my own sculptor if I want these things about me to take the shape I wish.